A Notable Walk (3)

Although Ruth asks that we move quietly out of the dorms the next morning, so that those who would prefer a lie-in may do so, we are woken early the following morning by what sounds like every American on the trip crumpling plastic bags, stamping their boots and talking very loudly indeed. My one-season sleeping bag might have just about kept me warm during the night, but pulling it up over my head, it proves to be next-to-useless when it comes to blocking out any external noise – I promise myself to find my earplugs for the following evening.
As it is, we set off late the following morning, so late in fact that we run into an advance party of guided walkers who spent the previous evening in more luxurious accommodation a fifteen minute walk from the ferry terminus. The guided walk is considerably more expensive than the independent alternative, but includes the added incentives of hot showers, decent food and the benefit that the participants need only carry their clothes from location to location. What they have been told about us is anybody's guess, as a group of them have evidently taken the diversion to inspect our hut before continuing further.
"Oh." says a pristinely attired woman, sounding curiously disappointed as she emerges from a reconnaissance mission to our toilet block, "They have proper toilets."
Her husband says nothing as we pass hastily, he just issues a straight-line smile and swats off some sandflies.

The second day's walk is the first day to cover a substantial distance. Sixteen or so kilometres follow the Clinton River to its source in the Clinton Canyon. The path starts off well defined and although there was rain in the night, and the surrounding peaks seem to have received a fresh dusting of snow, the weather appears to be clear once more, with another blanket-blue sky serving as a backdrop for the day's trek.
After a short distance the river forks, a little later still, and we find evidence of a landslide which occurred in 1982. The fallen rubble isolated a backwater of the river and created a small lake, punctured with greening dead tree-trunks extending upwards as bristles and downwards as reflections.
To our left and right, the canyon narrows, and the previous night's rainfall becomes apparent in the silver threads of waterfalls trailing down the rock faces on either side of us.
The route is helpfully marked with kilometre markers, which aside from illustrating how far is left of the walk there is to go, also - gallingly - demonstrate how much our pace slows as the day progresses.
But with the weather clear and the views all around excellent, there is no reason to rush, and as we leave the beach forests behind and enter a broad prairie marking out the base of the glacier-formed valley, we take a little time to stand stupidly and oggle.
Here we have our first view of Mackinnon Pass, the highest part of the route which we will be crossing tomorrow. It looks imposing, lurking darkly ahead of us, flanked on either side by the glowering edifices of Mount Hart and Mount Balloon. To our left, further peaks reveal themselves and Tamsin is having difficulties rationing her camera film.
"I'll take one shot every two kilometres." she decides, before another mountain rises into view before us, each more glorious than the last.
"Oh, to hell with it." she says, and takes a picture anyway.
We stop for lunch near Pompolona Creek and as we finish, the weather finally begins to resemble the forecasts we have been warned about. The final hour or so is spent stumbling through scrub land as the path begins to ascend part way up towards the pass.
The path gets quite steep here, and with the lowering clouds veiling the views once more, the rain lends us an impetus to just get the walk over and done with for the afternoon.
"This hut had better have a good view," Tamsin says.
It does. Greeting us with wide verandas fluttering with multi-coloured waterproof jackets and trousers, hanging up to dry as best they can, it faces directly onto the steep slopes of Mount Balloon, which towers before us, drawing the weather to it: clouds, snow and rain.
We retreat into the shelter of the hut. A fire has already been lit, brightening the ruddy faces which turn to greet our entrance into the warmth.

The atmosphere this evening is warmer than last night, with our community of walkers visibly more comfortable with each other. Camaraderie has grown with the shared spectacle to discuss and the hut feels more relaxed as a result.
Faces emerge from the crowd, and various groups become more defined. The family from Tasmania consists of a young married couple and his parents. They shuffle brightly coloured camping equipment around the tables.
"We took our time today," says the mother with wide-eyed delight, "We stopped at every diversion."
The Polish couple preside over a remarkably complicated sounding card game, while a comparatively local older couple now based in Queenstown take pity on Tamsin and me because we did not bring any coffee. They supply us with mugs of our own - instant coffee has never tasted so welcome.
Two English girls huddle around the fire and fret that they are under-equipped for the following day's walk. A portly Australian, travelling with his daughter, admits he is a football coach. A pair of Germans look remarkably miserable even when a cheery Austrian tries to engage them in conversation.
The largest group is the Americans. Once strangers to each other, they now huddle around a table in the far corner of the hut talk about the wonders of Colorado in not-so hushed tones. But they are not the loudest in the hut, the most vocal is a man named Steve, who describes himself as a "Jafa".
"Jafa?" I ask innocently.
"Just another fucking Aucklander."
He grins the sort of grin reserved for those who don't swear as much as they would like to.
His walking partner, an elderly gentleman with eyes which twinkle with good humour, chips in.
"Me too." he says in a broad American accent, "I'm a Jafa too."
Steve frowns.
"No, you're not." he says. "You're a Yank."
His companion nods.
"Just about from Alabama." he says with a grin.
Cliff first encountered Steve on an Internet talkboard centred around hiking. Steve was looking for volunteers to test out his revolutionary new sleeping bag design and Cliff volunteered.
"It didn't really work," Cliff admits, "Not for me, anyway. But we kept in touch."
They have been in communication for years, and although Cliff's visit to New Zealand has been the first opportunity for them to meet, they act and talk like a pair of old friends who are very comfortable with each other's company. Or at very least, a double act in which there is the suspicion that only one of them is aware that their performance is funny.
At the moment, for example, Steve is including references to 'Uncle Jack' in each sentence in order to demonstrate that he possesses a hip-flask full of Jack Daniels.
"Not really a bourbon man, myself." Cliff says.
"Jack Daniels isn't a bourbon!" Steve roars. "It's Tennessee Whiskey!"
He embarks on a lengthy lecture on the subject - detailing the differences between the two. Cliff nods attentively with the occasional mischievous grin at us, clearly delighted to have set him off.
"Do you know how Jack died?" Steve asks.
Cliff scratches his toe meaningfully.
"Liver disease?" He asks mildly.
"Gangrene!" Steve cries triumphantly. "He couldn't get into his safe one time, and kicked it in frustration, breaking his toes. Got gangrene and died three days later!"
"That a fact?" says Cliff, releasing his own toe, "You should be a tour-guide at the distillery."
"That's just what they said!" says Steve.

Mintaro hut has three dormitories, and by the time we arrive, the largest one upstairs snuggly fitted beneath the rafters of the hut, is full. Walking up and down it, faces emerge from the shadows peering at me as I try to identify any free beds. Instead, we end up in a smaller room near the back, and find ourselves sharing with a tall, adenoidal German, and the continuing Cliff and Steve show.
As we unpack our sleeping bags, Steve unpacks a large box of ear-plugs.
"Are they to hand out to everyone else?" Cliff asks.
"No they are not." Steve says, "They're because you snore like a traction engine."
"You have eight pairs." Cliff observes, "I can't be that bad, surely?"
Steve notices the logo on my sleeping bag and changing the subject, explains instead that his coat was made by the same company.
"It doubles as a pillow." he says, and to demonstrate, slips out of it, and folds it in such a way that he can tuck it into a pouch at the head of his sleeping bag. He stands back in a sort of 'ta-da!' pose and not knowing what else to do, I nod and smile appreciatively.
This is clearly the wrong thing to do, because he then repeats the trick several times, from different angles, and for a strange moment, I become half convinced that I've become trapped inside the shopping channel.